


Peach Emoji

by pillage_and_lute



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Buffskier, Himbo Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier is thicc, M/M, geralt is an ass man, ye olde booty shorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:40:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27563935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pillage_and_lute/pseuds/pillage_and_lute
Summary: This is just thicc! Jaskier and horny! Geralt. Somebody take away my keyboard. 🍑🍑🍑
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 11
Kudos: 241





	1. Do he got a booty?

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know why I wrote this, but write it I did.

Geralt was, on the whole, a patient and reasonable man. This did not include gwent and sleep deprivation, where he lost absolutely all sense and often a fair amount of coin. But the issue was the bard.

The bard had followed him out of a tavern and into an elven trap and then, for the past three years, had followed him across much of the Continent. And in those three years Geralt had never noticed how…well endowed Jaskier was.

It wasn’t about the size of his staff, which was fine but not far above average. It was, frankly, his ass.

Geralt was an ass man, and Jaskier could have made a fair few jokes about that phrasing, but it was the truth. When he could find a lady of negotiable affection who didn’t stink of fear, he enjoyed gripping soft, round flesh in his hands. With the occasional non-financially-compensated partner he had sometimes sunk teethmarks in, if they were amenable. Geralt was aware that he himself, was blessed with a nice ass, and wore tight pants to highlight it, one of the few flashes of vanity he allowed himself. All this to say, after three years of traveling with the man he was surprised he had never noticed the absolute perfection that was his round and frankly sculpted ass, supported by thick, sturdy thighs.

Strangest of all was that Jaskier seemed almost bashful about it. He would prance about in an undone doublet and a see through chemise, but the second it came to bathing and undressing, which they often did near one another due to the nature of traveling on the road, he became body shy. He would always shuffle about so that Geralt’s back was to him. Geralt of course had never peeked and never would, with his companion so clearly avoiding his gaze. Therefore, although his companion’s inconsistent modesty surprised and amused him, Geralt had really never seen Jaskier without pants until, well.

Geralt had been fighting a kikimore when it lunged at Jaskier. He had been told to stay back, but got too close to the fighting again. The past few weeks had been hot and dry, turning the earth to dust, but there had been a summer storm last night and the ground was covered mud. Geralt tackled Jaskier into a puddle of it, thoroughly covering them both. 

He then dispatched the kikimore, collecting the head as proof for the alderman before leading them both to a stream to wash off because,

“Really Geralt. Look at my clothes. I mean, my doublet is ruined. And the pants. I know you don’t mind a little bit of guts and glory but some of us like to be clean!”

Unfazed by near death, but complaining about his clothes, Jaskier stripped down without his usual bashfulness and Geralt stopped cold. The toned chest and strong arms were not new, nor the dark hair of Jaskier’s chest. But he had turned away to wash and he had the most perfect ass. It looked like it had been carved out of marble.

It was probably even better than a marble statue, although admittedly Geralt hadn’t seen very many, not being a huge patron of the arts. But marble statues didn’t dimple as the owner twisted to scrub himself clean, they didn’t have hair dusting the muscled thighs, or occasional moles like dark stars dotting creamy skin. Geralt wanted to grip. Take two handfuls of soft flesh and sculpted muscle and squeeze.

Then Jaskier bent over to scrub mud from a surprisingly delicate ankle and Geralt, victor of a thousand monster fights, lost his footing and fell fully clothed into the stream. It didn’t matter, his clothes needed washed anyway and Jaskier laughed like sunshine while grabbing him by the arm and hauling him with startling strength from the water. They stood chest to chest, an inch of height difference between them and Jaskier looked at him with a hint of knowing in his eyes before turning and going back to washing himself. He called over his shoulder,

“You look flushed, was the fight that hard?”

Geralt, refusing to even think about Jaskier saying ‘hard’ while naked, said,

“Hmmm.”


	2. He doooo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did I google Ye Olde Booty Shorts for this? Yes. Jaskier’s final outfit inspired by this tumblr thread. https://rockboci.tumblr.com/post/616039476925546496

After Geralt’s revelation at the stream, life only got harder.

No not harder. Worse. Life got worse. (It got harder too but he wasn’t about to admit it.)

Jaskier seemed to finally realize that he had the most wonderous ass known to man, elf, or mutant, and was finally dressing to accentuate the fact. Geralt would have called this a blessing except it turned out to be a curse.

It was distracting.

First it had been the new clothes. They had stopped in Redania for a week and on their way out picked up a few new outfits from a tailor who was, apparently, Jaskier’s favorite and one of the finest. Jaskier made Geralt stop barely outside of town so he could slip into the bushes at the side of the road and change. 

After much rustling he emerged in a green outfit. It was halfway between emerald and forest green with fine embroidered vines stitched in off-white on the doublet. The chemise matched, cream colored with green vines at the collar (undone and so low cut that Geralt could trace the length of Jaskier’s sternum with his eyes, he wanted to try it with his lips as well) and the fabric was fine and soft and almost see through. The pants though. The pants. Geralt didn’t know much about clothes. He wore black because it was easy and if it got messy he could always redye it in monster ichor. But the pants Jaskier were wearing were a work of art. Silk, like the doublet, but a half shade darker and a bit more textured, with the horizontal threads sometimes a little courser, standing out just a bit. Geralt wanted to run his hands over the fabric. The real artistry of the pants wasn’t in the fabric, or even really the design at all, but in the ass they were placed upon. 

Placed very tightly upon. 

Practically skin tight.

Geralt would have thought they were sewn onto Jaskier if he didn’t know better. It occured to Geralt that to remove the pants from Jaskier he would have to peel them down strong thighs, revealing inch after inch of hairy, soft skin over tightly corded muscle. The doublet was cut high too, high enough that the entirety of that glorious ass was on display at all times. Like two halves of a ripe peach pressed into green silk. Geralt wanted a bite.

And then Jaskier bent down, aparently adjusting the tuck of the pants into his boots. That alone would have been torture enough, except bending over revealed that part of the reason the pants cupped his ass so beautifully was a pleat at the center back, tied tighter with matching green ribbon. 

A little bow.

At the top of Jaskier’s perfect ass.

Like a present.

Geralt took a hasty swig from his water skin as Jaskier straightened back up, strong shoulders flexing under thin fabric. There was a faint smirk on his face. The one that usually meant trouble. 

“How do I look, Geralt?” 

He choked on his water.

After the new pants (and all of the outfits Jaskier had bought were that tight) came the ankle. If Geralt had been suspicious that Jaskier knew about his little…fascination, this assuaged his fears, because Jaskier sprained an ankle while trying to get away from a wyvern.

And damn it, hadn’t Geralt told him not to get so close. 

But Geralt dispatched the wyvern and was quick enough pulling off Jaskier’s boot that the ankle hadn’t swollen too much to get it off. He checked the swelling after making sure it wasn’t broken, having to pull off Jaskier’s other boot and wrap a hand about his uninjured ankle to compare.

Jaskier’s ankles, were surprisingly slim for such sturdy legs, the calf tapering nicely to delicate bones. Geralt’s hand could wrap almost all the way around the uninjured ankle. Unable to stop himself, he squeezed, just a little, just to feel his fingertip brush his thumb. He heard Jaskier’s heart stutter in his chest and cursed himself. Of course he was frightened, injured, with Geralt crouched over him like a nightmare, eyes black and skin pale. He smelled like lust still, but he always smelled like that. But it was worth it, not scaring Jaskier, nothing was worth that, but the knowledge of how his ankle fit into Geralt’s, frankly massive hand was priceless. They were of a height but Geralts hands were so big, and the image of a pale ankle being gripped, used as leverage to pull the bard closer on a bed, the same ankle being draped over one of Geralt’s shoulders…some pleasures had to be treasured quietly.

He quickly measured the other ankle, offer soft hushing noises at the tenderness even his bare touch brought. The swelling was bad, and Jaskier couldn’t walk, but it wasn’t broken. He splinted it with wood and bandages and then lifted Jaskier like a princess –like a bride– in his arms. 

The outfit today, one of the new ones, was a pretty fabric, the sort that seemed to shift colors, sunset orange and maybe a touch of pink. Like a peach.

The thought was not helpful as Geralt settled Jaskier in front of him on Roach for the ride back into town. 

In all the time they’d traveled, Geralt rarely let Jaskier ride with him, not willing to overburden Roach, and Roach was too finnicky, although she liked Jaskier, as any horse would quite like those that gave them treats, to have any single rider that wasn’t Geralt. Geralt had offered that they could pool their coin to save for a second horse, but Jaskier had declined, saying that he wasn’t over fond of riding.

It must have been the truth because Jaskier didn’t sit a horse well, rocking back and forth on Roach with each step. It wouldn’t have been so much of an issue except there wasn’t much room on Roach’s back. He tried breathing deeply, reciting monsters, picturing Vesemir covered in troll dung. Nothing worked. Eventually Geralt had to put one hand around Jaskier’s hip to steady him, saying gruffly,

“You move too much. And if you aren’t careful you’ll hurt that ankle more, splint or not.”

Regardless, when they got to the inn Geralt ordered two rooms and settled Jaskier comfortably into his before settling in to his own. He needed privacy.

After the ankle incident, once all was well and healed, the issue was Jaskier’s performances. 

Contrary to popular belief, and indeed Geralt’s own words, he liked to watch Jaskier perform, especially after a contract. He was a true master of his craft, and Geralt would admit to having something of a competence kink. Besides that, the raw charisma of his performance distracted other inn-goers from Geralt’s presence and he could eat in peace, the smell of Jaskier’s happiness (pure joy, like always when he performed) drifting over him and calming the adrenaline still racing in his blood. 

But they were in a dingy tavern in some swampy backwater with Jaskier wearing the third and final of Jaskier’s outfits from Redania. The same fit as the others, with gold details and puffed sleeves, in a beautiful, shimmering cherry red. The fabric shone in the low lamplight, firelight making it seem to glow from within. And in this little backwater town the people didn’t want grand or courtly tales. These were simple folk who worked hard and wanted simple pleasures at the end of the day. That meant jigs and reels and country ditties, the lyrics of which got raunchier as the night went on. 

And had Jaskier always wiggled his hips so much when he performed? Perhaps, but the looser cut had always hidden the, frankly illegal, movement. He sent a salacious wink towards a patron in the crowd, but facing towards Geralt in the corner and Geralt could almost picture it was sent to him. 

Jaskier began his final song of the night, a saucy tune about a bar wench and a knight, with plenty of indecent metaphors about the length of his lance the size of her jugs (of ale). It would have been fine. A fun time. An easy contract and a full stomach and a nice fire and a song. But Jaskier stamped one foot to the beat, adding a pleasing rythym to the quick tune on his lute, he had his back mostly to Geralt, and it allowed him a perfect view of the way his ass jiggled with every stomp.

The movement of plump softness over muscle was too much for Geralt. He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, willing his …problem…to go away. It didn’t the image of Jaskier’s perfect behind, moving to the beat and jiggling, shiny red like a ripe cherry, seemed imprinted on the backs of his eyelids. 

He had to go out back to the privy to take care of himself before going up to their room. It was getting out of hand.

The final straw was yet another new outfit. Geralt waited patiently outside the tailor’s shop in some mid sized city, debating whether he should follow his nose to the bakery he could smell, when Jaskier exited the shop. He had only gone in because,

“Geralt, please, I’ve heard such great things about this tailor, and everyone says he gives such a good deal. I promise I’ll only be a minute.” It had been an entire boring half hour but now…

Oh Melitele preserve him.

Booty shorts. The bard was wearing booty shorts. 

Sky blue blur fabric cut so short it looked like smallclothes. Not so tight as the pants before but so, so much worse for Geralt’s self control. One leg was entirely gone, but for an artful bit of fabric tucked into the boot. The other leg had been ‘mended’ in an artful way, a thigh high pant leg held to the booty shorts by thin strips of material. Geralt could hear his self control creaking.

“Do you like it? Isn’t it lovely Geralt. It was made for another client who never picked it up and so I bought it for a quarter of the cost. This fashion’s all the rage too.”

Geralt knew it was. Had seen it even, but not like this. Not with Jaskier twisting about, preening, smiling that beautiful smile in the sunshine, looking so happy and alluring at the same time.

“Will we be staying here much longer?” Jaskier asked, his back to Geralt but twisting to look at himself, one hand settling at the top of that perfect, maddening curve. “I’d love to have him alter the pants a little, I think they should be tighter, don’t you?”

Geralt’s self control snapped.

He dragged Jaskier into an alley, away from the sunlight and potential onlookers and shoved him face first into a wall, taking care that no injury came to him, but not giving a damn beyond that. He pressed against Jaskier, hands holding delicate wrists against the wall. 

“Do you know,” his voice came out lower and more gravely, “how you tempt me.” He let his hands give the wrists a gentle squeeze. He could smell no fear, only lust, the scent spiked so much it made his head spin. 

“If you do not want me, want this, tell me now and you shall never hear of it again from me but…” he nosed along Jaskier’s neck,letting his lips barely brush, whishing to sink his teeth in and claim. “But I beg of you do not toy with me. I am only a mortal.”

To his amazement Jaskier chuckled and pressed back against him. 

“So you finally caught on, then?”

Geralt snarled, letting one hand release a wrist to grip instead at Jaskier’s hip, almost bruising. 

“You did this on purpose. This has all been your plan?”

“Of course,” Jaskier leaned his head back onto Geralt’s shoulder. “ I saw how you looked at me at that stream, I’ve wanted you for so long, darling. If only I’d known the secret was tighter tailoring.”

Geralt’s hand flexed on Jaskier’s hip, then yanked him tighter against him. In the dark alley, far from the main street, Geralt flipped Jaskier around and pinned him to the wall, hands firmly holding his ass with the bards legs about his hips.

“Dear heart,” Jaskier said, voice breathy, “lets go back to the inn.”

Geralt growled.

“No.”


End file.
